Confessions of a Hopeless Father
by doctorwarren
Summary: Peter on his daughter and fatherhood.


I don't know where these things come from. I'm just hopeless, hopelessly hopeless. They take over me, and I have to write them down. I'm sorry for the extreme cheesiness and complete lack of point or plot of this fic. I'm a baby freak so I had to write a baby fic. I'm almost embarrassed of this one, but hey, no smut. That's a progress. It's also unbetaed, so any tips and corrections are welcome.

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Alarms had become long obsolete in their home.

"Mama? Mama? Mama? " Every morning, with the sunrise, her sweet voice filled their room. Normally, being risen from sweet sleep at six am would piss him off to no end. But since she had entered his life, he woke up with a smile every single morning, no matter what.

Even though she was calling her mother, he was the one to get up to get her. He had insisted on doing so since the first days of her life when, trying to help in any way he could, he had offered to be the one to bring the baby for night feedings whenever she woke up, which happened every two hours religiously back then. She had long gone from three feedings a night, to two, to one, to none, but he still made sure he'd be the one getting her out of the crib in the morning.

He walked into the room to see her chubby little hands holding the sides of the crib as she looked at him with her big blue eyes, her mouth open in one happy one-toothed grin.

"Mama?" She insisted, letting go of the crib, balancing precariously on her little legs to move her fingers opening and closing her hands as if she was milking a cow. They had taught her baby sign language since she was four months old, having read in the books that it was quite helpful to reduce frustration and help parents bond with their babies. By the time she was six months old, she started signing back. Now she could say only a few words like, mama and dada, but she could sign milk, more, sleep, bath, water, cheerios, book, cheese, grandpa, star (which had become Astrid's sign), please and thank you. It was quite impressive for her 10 months of age. But then again, she was special.

"Morning, crazy hair." He said, picking her up and balancing her solid weight on his left arm not before kissing her soft cheeks until she whimpered in complaint. The nickname was somewhat recent. Her hair had been brown like his when she was first born but it slowly fell off giving way to light and thin blond hair like her mom's. It was so light and so thin that in most pictures she looks bald from three months on and, after a while, it just wouldn't obey the laws of gravity anymore. There was nothing they could do to keep it down.

"Mommy came home very late last night, how about you take a nice bottle with daddy?" he asked, carrying her over to the changing table.

"No." oh, yeah, that was another word she knew well.

He chuckled, knowing there was no convincing her of otherwise. Miss Henrietta Dunham Bishop had her mother's last name as her middle name for a reason.

"Ok, let's change your diaper first." He put her down on the changing table and started opening her footed pajamas. Instantly, she started wriggling and whimpering, trying hard to turn on her tummy and escape. Since she became mobile, being on her back was like pure torture.

"Hey, Etta, Etta." He called her name trying to distract her as he attempted the quickest diaper change a poor father could do. "Show me your nose. Where is your nose?"

Etta immediately smiled, playing along and touching her left hand to her nose. She was the spit image of her mother, the only two things she had inherited from him was the blue eyes and the left handedness. But then again, it was a Bishop trait that had been carried down for generations now.

Oh yes, and apparently, she was as precocious as her father had been.

Walter had taught her to touch the parts of her body when he asked where it was. It seemed she got it pretty quickly, and they were just amused until they showed it to her pediatrician, and learned from her that normally babies were only expected to do that at around 18 months of age. But it had been no surprise to her parents, Henrietta had always been a very bright child. She had been born six weeks early, tiny but healthy, very alert from the get go, always looking around with this wise expression on her face as if she knew the answer to every question, but just couldn't say it.

Entering the world wasn't the only thing she did early. From birth, every milestone was achieved way before it was expected. She had rolled from her back to her tummy at two months of age, and by the time she was four months old she was already dragging herself around the house on her tummy. She sat up by herself a month later and was crawling perfectly and quickly on her hands and knees a day before her half birthday. They had to keep all eyes on her all the time because she was fast and curious. By the time she was eight months old her babbling started resembling real words and at nine months and two days, on a morning just like that one, she had said her first word, "no" obviously.

She was certainly the most strong-willed baby he had ever seen, honoring her middle name. He had insisted that Dunham would be her middle name long before he knew she'd be as determined as her mother. His insistence came from the way she entered this world. Olivia went into labor six weeks early during a work trip to New York that almost never happened. Her water broke in the cab on the way to the hotel and, of course, during rush hour.

Etta came into the world aided by a cab driver whose previous experience with childbirth had been delivering his own daughter in that very back seat. His name was Henry, and Peter was taken aback by the coincidence and even more surprised later when he found out that his alternate had helped Olivia when she was stuck on the other side. It went without saying that they had to name their daughter Henrietta not just after the son he never had, but after that man who had come to Olivia's aid in such crucial times of her life.

And even though she had been born premature without any professional assistance or medical intervention, Etta had been ok. She had been so strong and determined to live that she only spent one night in the NICU. Peter knew only a Dunham would be this good at being a survivor, and he thought it would be unfair to deny her the name.

Once he was done changing her diaper, Peter picked his daughter up and walked back into their bedroom where Olivia lay on her side eyes already open, waiting for them. She smiled wide her Etta smile, sitting up and extending her arms to catch the baby who was already throwing herself at her.

"Hey take your time getting away from me, my beloved daughter." He said.

Olivia immediately laid her in her arms, pulling her shirt up allowing Etta to wrap her mouth around her nipple, kissing her baby's fingers as she moved her hand up to her lips like she always did.

Peter flopped back on the bed and watched his two beloved ladies exchange looks of love, as his chest felt like it was going to explode with the same feeling. It was in moments like those that he thought about Walter. It wasn't until Etta was born in such a crazy way that he realized he had never completely forgiven his father for what he had done, no matter how grateful he had come to be. It was only when he saw her little body attached to machines in that incubator that he had realized; it was the first time he had truly understood. He knew right then that he'd destroy as many universes as it was necessary to keep her alive.

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A.N: Hello, anyone there? What are you thinking? What are you feeling? Come on, don't be shy, let me know.


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